Timon and Pumbaa: Locating the Locust Horde
by Red Squirrel Writer
Summary: Timon and Pumbaa drop off in Oklahoma to feast on the locust swarms... and it seems the bugs are a little late! But why?
1. Default Chapter

A/N:Well hey! Here's my first Lion King story! It's only T&P action from here on in, folks! Forget all that rot about _Simba _and his little struggles with kingship (dodges projectiles from Simba fans...), cause Timon and Pumbaa are the only ones I'll be writing about, I promise you that now. I think I'll turn this into my own little private Timon and Pumbaa series! Tell me what you think! Do it now! Hurry! Well anyway. Here's the story. Please review. I'll give you doughnuts. Big chewy ones. Oh yeah... I don't own anything here related to the Lion King or the show Timon and Pumbaa's Jungle Adventures. Or whatever the show is called, I can't remember right now.

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The air was hot on the plains of Oklahoma, scorching even the bitingly dry dirt that roiled and trundled in huge clouds across the empty dust bowl area of the agricultural state. The wind was scarce, but whenever it picked up, blinding dust devils were sure to follow. But plants were grown here, as evidenced by the large, green, geometric squares that Pumbaa the warthog squinted down at through his goggles from his terrifying perch of ten thousand feet in the air, circling in a large propeller driven airplane. He was dressed, or rather, stuffed into a jumpsuit made for sky diving, a parachute strapped tightly to his back.  
  
There was, in a slanted contrast to the ground below, more than enough cool air and high wind to be found up here. Pumbaa turned and looked nervously down at his best friend Timon, the wisecracking meerkat, and questioned him in a shaky voice that was barely heard over the whipping winds and driving engines.  
  
"Timon, you are sure that this is the best way to exit an airplane, right?"  
  
Contrary to the panic-stricken look of unsure horror on Pumbaa's face, Timon was wearing a huge grin, and shouted back to his friend in a voice full of adrenaline.  
  
"Heck yeah, Pumbaa! This, my fellow swindling swine friend, is a surefire way of safely and efficiently removing ourselves from the premises!"  
  
"But how do you know that?" said Pumbaa, feeling some slight chagrin at being called a swindling swine. Timon's mouth suddenly drew itself into a flat line.  
  
"Because Pumbaa, we have to be off the plane before the pilot finds out all I gave him for money was thirty aphids and a can of sugar! And anyway, don't you want to get down there before we miss the biggest bug feast in all of Hakuna Matata history?!?"  
  
"Uhhhh...." Pumbaa thought hard, the lines in his face . Timon had told him why they were coming here at the start of the trip, but everything was so fuzzy after ten sweaty hours in a sack of coconuts...  
  
Timon slapped his paw against his forehead and yelled over the wind.  
  
"We're here to chow down on the locusts! Don't you remember the locust swarms I told you all about? The ones that come out every farming season! Millions of hopping, juicy, crunchy, absolutely mouth-watering grasshoppers fat enough to make a meal a munch!" The meerkat had been growing more frantic with each tasty word in his speech, and by the end, Timon was positively drooling; the thought of a nigh everlasting feast of swarms of bugs too fat to crawl spurred him to action.  
  
"I ain't missing this for the world, buddy! Geronimoooooooo!!!" With that, Timon had taken a cannonball position and leaped into the air. Pumbaa took one look down, but simply seeing Timon jump was enough to make him follow.  
  
"Hakuna Matataaaaaa!!!"  
  
Meanwhile, back in the cockpit, the pilot suddenly found himself wrestling with thirty hyperactive aphids that seemed intent on taking control of the airplane.  
  
/=/  
  
Hard rock music blared from nowhere as Timon and Pumbaa plummeted to the Earth at approximately one hundred ten miles per hour, the wind whipping their cheeks and eyelids back into a cartoonishly comic pose, looks of sheer exhilaration all over their faces. They whooped with the excitement and peeled away from each other during the long fall, Pumbaa still in a bunched up ball and thus dropping like a rock compared to Timon, who pulled out his trusty blue suitcase, yanking out something that looked suspiciously like a snowboard, and began "surfing" the rest of the way down. He came up upon Pumbaa again.  
  
"I tell ya buddy, this is the only way to travel!"  
  
"You're playing with a gavel?" said Pumbaa, obviously not understanding over the noise of their falling.  
  
"No! This is the only way to travel!" yelled Timon, with more emphasis on his words.  
  
"I have a steak in my satchel?!"  
  
Timon moaned loudly and cupped his paws around his mouth. "The only way to travel!"  
  
"You say there's a rake to unravel?"  
  
"Pumbaa!!! This! Is! The! Only! Way! To! Travel!"  
  
Pumbaa's face lit up in recognition. "Oooohhh! Well why didn't you say so? But I still think this is the only way to travel!"  
  
"Oy..."  
  
/=/  
  
Once they had made it safely down (if one can call landing in a pricker bush safe) and extricating themselves from their less than stellar landing spot, they stood up and stared in varying degrees of disappointment at the blandness of the landscape. Mostly it was flat, with lots of dirt, but it was colorful dirt in many areas. Timon looked severely ticked, with his paws on his hips and his eyes narrowed. He looked up at Pumbaa, who seemed not to know what to make of the situation.  
  
"Pumbaa?" he asked.  
  
"Yes?" the pig replied.  
  
"You know what?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't think there are any locusts around here."  
  
"Aw, cheer up Timon. There's got to be something around... here... I mean look at- no, that's just a rock... ooo, here's some... um... dirt..."  
  
Timon suddenly threw up his arms and began pacing. "Grraaggh! I knew it! This was a waste of time! We fly all the way from home, cram ourselves into a little bag full of... COCONUTS for ten hours straight, jump out of it and land in a pricker bush, and now we find out that there is _ABSOLUTELY NOTHING HERE!!!"_ Timon dropped to his knees and flung his fists at the sky when he was done yelling, his shouts echoing across the dusty plains. He let his arms drop and then patted ruefully at his stomach.  
  
"And now I'm hungry..." Pumbaa sighed and chewed on his lip. They wouldn't get what they came here for after all... then, suddenly, an idea popped into his head.  
  
"Hey, maybe we could go into town or something and ask people about what's going on! Maybe they can tell us why the locusts aren't here!"  
  
Timon blew a raspberry with his tongue and glowered at Pumbaa, shrugging off the suggestion.  
  
"What? That's plain stupid, Pumbaa. Who in their right minds would stroll into a town they've never been to in the middle of nowhere and just ask about a locust plague! Why that's- hey, I've got an idea! Why don't we find our way to town and ask some people about why the locusts aren't here!"  
  
Pumbaa seemed to have forgotten about his earlier idea and beamed admiringly at Timon as the meerkat leaped up on Pumbaa's back and whipped out a map.  
  
"Gee Timon that sounds great! How do you come up with all these smart ideas?"  
  
"How many times do I have to tell you Pumbaa? Who's the brains of this outfit?"  
  
"Ohh! Ohh! I know! It's definitely absolutely you Timon! You're the most smartest meerkat ever!"  
  
"Couldn't have said it better myself! Now here, take the compass. There's bugs to uncover!"


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter 2  
  
A/N: Disclaimer: I own nobody save anyone and anything not yet used on the Timon and Pumbaa show, or the Lion King franchise in general. Everything else is mine. So hands off, ya grubby ingrates!  
  
"Now here, take the compass. There's bugs to uncover!"  
  
6 ½ hours later...  
  
"Water... need... water..." gasped Pumbaa. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth, puffy and dry from lack of water. It felt like cardboard.  
  
"Ice... cream... everywhere..." mumbled Timon from on top of Pumbaa's back, his eye twitching and a crazy grin on his face. He was loosely holding a sweat soaked map that sagged at their sides, of no use to them because, rather unfortunately, neither of them knew where they were in the first place. All around them there was nothing but flat land that was dry, hot, featureless, boring, and above all, totally vacant of bugs. Both of them were ragingly thirsty, and terribly hungry.  
  
Pumbaa took a careful look back at Timon, who was still acting crazy and mumbling to himself. Pumbaa managed to gasp out a question.  
  
"Ti... Timon... do... do we know... where we are?"  
  
"Iceee creeeeaaaammmm..."  
  
"Timon?"  
  
"Huh? Wha-who? What? Oh man! Pumbaa! I was having the most wonderful dream... there was... there was ice cream... everywhere... packed with frozen bugs..."  
  
"Yeah, uh, you kinda mentioned the ice cream already Timon..."  
  
"So, why'd you wake me? Are we at the town yet?"  
  
"Um... no..."  
  
"What?!?" Timon suddenly seemed to actually "wake up" and realize the full depth of their situation, throwing his head wildly in all directions. Then he did what he did best in these situations: whine and mope.  
  
"Ugghhh! This is crazy Pumbaa! We're lost, hungry, and thirsty in a gigantic bowl of dirt! I told you going off to look for a town was a bad idea!"  
  
"Um..."  
  
"Hey, which way are we going anyway...?" Timon picked up the map that had stuck to his leg with all the perspiration, twisting it around and turning Oklahoma sideways and folding it in half.  
  
"Sheesh... who's the mook that drew this thing? None of it makes sense!"  
  
"Timon? It's not even open all the way. You're looking at the triple-a logo."  
  
"Oh... well uh, I knew that! I mean, obviously it's that um... big "A" thing. I was just pointing out how stupid it was..."  
  
"Ohhh... I see... I think."  
  
"Um... okay. There's a town over here. We dropped over here right? ....Right. 'Course we did. Well anyway, we chose to go in the direction of this town here, which was west. And you said we were going west, right?"  
  
"West?" Pumbaa said falteringly. "Um... I thought we were supposed to go... Mest..."  
  
"What?!? Mest?? What are you talking about Pumbaa? Let me see the compass..."  
  
Pumbaa gingerly held out the offending navigation piece. Timon took one glance at it and groaned.  
  
"Oy... Pumbaa... you're holding it upside down.... Turn it right side up... See? We've been going east this whole time!!!"  
  
"Ohh, I'm sorry Timon! I was just so hot and... and hungry and thirsty and... and... I'm just a bad navigator!" Pumbaa, poor little hog he was, felt so terrible over his mishap that he had collapsed onto his stomach and covered his eyes with his hooves, sobbing pitifully. Timon sighed and rolled his eyes wearily, then hopped down to try and comfort his pathetic looking companion. He patted the hog's snout cautiously.  
  
"Um... there, there, Pumbaa... um... you didn't do anything wrong, I mean... take a look, our lives are saved!"  
  
"No, no... I'm a horrible friend! You should just leave me here to shrivel up!"  
  
"No, really Pumbaa! We're saved, would you look? We're saved! Totally, utterly, wonderfully saved!"  
  
"No, Timon, don't try and make me feel any better! Just go away and don't let me sully our friendship any longer-"  
  
"Pumbaa, would you shut up and quit bawling? Look!"  
  
Pumbaa looked. Sure enough, there, due to some divine intervention or sheer chance of luck, they had stumbled across a sleepy old farming community. It was a sprawl of buildings and silos with discolored crops spreading out in all directions. Old, rusted trucks hung out next to shops and on the streets.  
  
"Yay!" said Pumbaa, tears and sobbing instantly forgotten.  
  
/=/  
  
As they neared the town and entered it, it was obvious the town was a quiet place. There was hardly a soul in the streets, aside from some old codger in a rocking chair under the awning of an old grocery store. Timon took one look at the place and immediately declared his displeasure.  
  
"Now would you look at this dump? It's like the puny town of nothing that time forgot." Pumbaa glanced around worriedly.  
  
"Well there's gotta be somebody around here that can help us," he said. He glanced over at the old codger in the rocking chair, nodding at him.  
  
"Maybe he knows something!" Timon glanced only once at the relaxing elderly man and shook his head.  
  
"Oh, come on, Pumbaa! He's just some old mook with too little brain to get out of this dusty air! I mean look at him! He's all wrinkled and... crusty and stuff."  
  
Pumbaa, however, paid no heed to Timon's warnings and trotted over to the wrinkled, bent man.  
  
"Howdy!" He said in his best Oklahoman accent (which was terrible by the way). The old man smiled and stood up, leaning heavily on his walking staff, grinning a crooked mouth spotted in some places by lost teeth. Dust that had caked onto his faded blue overalls came off in billowing clouds. His muscles were stretched taut over his gaunt frame, and his knobby hands fondled the cane to find purchase on the smooth wood.  
  
"Neh, eh, howdy there stranger! Gyeh... nice day today!"  
  
Timon folded his arms and looked distastefully upwards as Pumbaa replied heartily in his usual good manner, losing the accent this time.  
  
"And a good day to you, sir! Me and my pal Timon here were passing through trying to get something to eat. We're insectivores, you see, which means our diet consists only of small bugs and other invertebrates-"  
  
"We're hungry, and we're here for the locusts!" quipped Timon, always the impatient one. The second the word "locust" passed the meerkat's lips, the old man's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates and he stumbled backwards, his cracked lips quivering.  
  
"Geh... locusts?!? Where?? Where are th' vermin, eh? Where!" Timon and Pumbaa jumped back and cowered as the old man began swinging his cane to and fro. Timon held up his paws pleadingly.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, steady on there old timer! There are no locusts, they aren't anywhere! Believe us, we looked..." his eyes darted nervously back to the open plains from whence he and Pumbaa had come. The old man seemed to calm a little.  
  
"Nyeh... eh... hmm... you're right, Mr. T-bone-"  
  
"It's um... Timon," coughed the meerkat.  
  
"The locusts are gone!" yelled the old man, suddenly full of panicked energy once more. Timon dashed behind Pumbaa's considerable girth as the old man began brandishing his cane again.  
  
"Gone, gone! They're supposed to be here! 'Tis unnatural, unnatural I tell ye'!" The old man continued his rambling, leaving Timon and Pumbaa staring wide-eyed at the spectacle. The old man muttered a few things under his breath, then suddenly whipped around and grabbed Pumbaa by the shoulders.  
  
"Ye've gotta find 'em! Ye' just gotta!" Pumbaa squinted his eyes against the rain of spittle that flew from the old man's mouth.  
  
"Ummm... okay... but why? You didn't seem to happy when Timon mentioned locusts..." drawled Pumbaa, obviously very confused. The old man only grew more frantic.  
  
"Mehemanem! Don't ye' see, Plumb-bomb-?"  
  
"Pumbaa."  
  
"It's all a balance, a balance I tell ye'! The locusts are supposed to come! It's Nature's way, they come, they fly, they eat, they die, an' all over agin' next time! If they don't come, why... why the ecology of the place will be ruined! Ruined I say! Ruined!"  
  
Timon now took the time to try and regain control of the situation."Now see here, my fine, leathery faced friend..."  
  
"Ruined!!!" yelled the old man.  
  
"Yes, we know it's all ruined!!! But please sir, if you may, tell us... how in the heck are we supposed to find them? We don't even know where they come from!" The old man shook his head despairingly, finally letting go of Pumbaa's shoulders.  
  
"Oh, I don't know boys, I don't know... but you have to find them! Who knows what kind of absolutely sinister... gyeh, devious... eh, malicious... um, nem... maleficent plot is behind all this! I eh... I gotta tell the town how dire this is!"  
  
The old man gathered up his cane and began shambling away at a fairly good clip for a man as ancient as he, huffing and puffing all the way. Timon and Pumbaa were left standing in the street, staring after the old man, and then at each other. Timon was the first to recover, clapping his paws together in mock eagerness.  
  
"Well, doesn't that just take the cake! We came here to lay around in the sun, stuff ourselves silly, maybe get a tan... but now we see that we can restore the 'Balance of Nature'!" said the meerkat with mockingly dramatic emphasis on those last words. Pumbaa was taken in by the act easily, as he always was.  
  
"Yay! This _is_ the greatest Timon!" The naïve warthog began hopping a circle around Timon, who stared at his friend with bleak, condescending eyes. "We're gonna be heroes! We're gonna be heroes! We're gonna be heroes!" chanted Pumbaa, until Timon's paw finally snapped out and grabbed Pumbaa's tusk, pulling him down so they could be face-to-face.  
  
"Are you nuts?!?" yelled Timon, his eyes huge and his mouth even bigger. "We're getting out of here before something even weirder happens! I'm not going to work for my food! This was supposed to be a vacation! We're bug eaters, not glory gluttons! Besides, to get this kind of glory, we have to work. And working most definitely interrupts our very busy and full schedule of doing absolutely nothing for the rest of our lives!" Pumbaa's face suddenly got very pleading, his eyes taking on the exact aura of a sad puppy dog's.  
  
"Aww, come on Timon! It'll be fun, I promise! And when we're done we can eat allll the locusts we want! Please, can we go restore the balance of nature pleasepleaseprettypleasepleeeeaaasssseee?"  
  
Timon sighed, covering his eyes with his free paw. "Oy... I'm gonna regret this, but... okay. Pumbaa... let's go be heroes!" Timon finished his statement by striking a heroic pose, pointing his finger off in some random point in the sky. Pumbaa jumped up beside.  
  
"Oh, goody! This is going to be so much fun!"  
  
"Right, whatever, Pumbaa... now come on, let's go see what we can find out."  
  
They began walking off down the street. However, unbeknownst to them, a pair of devious, scheming eyes glowered at them from behind the corner of a nearby building. The figure watched them go with unswerving self- confidence, knowing those two bumbling fools would never be able to uncover his insidious plans. Once they were gone, the figure leaped theatrically from the shadows. He was a muscular fellow, with a large, round, red nose and combed back raven hair. He was wearing a clean cut white tuxedo and black dress shoes, and he wielded a polished pitchfork. Making sure nobody was around, he began laughing imperiously.  
  
"Hahahahaha! I, Cultivator Quint, the most affluent, ambitious, irrigated, organic, miserly, malicious, and home-grown farming mogul this side of the dust bowl, am nearly complete with my dastardly plans! Those two will never find the locusts... for I have them all for myself! I will soon be poised to unleash them solely upon my strongest competitors and wipe out their crops, securing my own monopoly over the farming community! I shall be the richest farmer in the state! But why stop there? I could be the richest agricultural magistrate in the country, nay, the world! Muahahahaha! Muahahahahaaaa!"  
  
A/N: Well well well. It seems we have encountered the antagonist! Reveal your criticisms, ye who read this fic, and tell me if this guy is a keeper! 


	3. The Chase is On

Chapter 3  
  
"So, Timon, where do we start on our grand quest?" Pumbaa queried. Timon took up a scouting position on top of Pumbaa's head and shaded his eyes with one paw. He observed the small, inconspicuous housings of the town, and his gaze settled on a run-down pub. He pointed triumphantly at it.  
  
"Right over there, Pumbaa!"  
  
"Um... why would we want to go there?" replied Pumbaa. He wasn't too sure that a place that sported the name "The Swarthy Soot Muncher" was the best place to start a search of any kind. Timon huffed at his friend's ignorance, and bent forwards to give Pumbaa an upside-down view of his face.  
  
"Ahh, how little you know, Pumbaa. Don't you know that the first place anyone goes to advance the storyline is any inn, tavern, salon, or otherwise incongruous meeting place for those of ill reputations and dispositions?" he explained, showing a saccharine grin as though he pitied Pumbaa's lack of "culture". Pumbaa stared dumbly; it always confused him when Timon used such large words in a single sentence. However, it also improved his respect of Timon and impressed him greatly. So, instead of giving an actual reply, he simply gazed at the upside-down meerkat in front of him and said, "Ohhhhh... right."  
  
"Right?" blurted out Timon. "Of course I'm right! Why wouldn't I be right? I am a genius after all!" Timon righted himself and pointed at the dirt little shack. "Now, onward!"  
  
The run down shack of a drinking establishment was, as expected, one of the most horrifyingly dirty, smelly, violent, and overall unsafe places to be. As Pumbaa pushed open the door with his prodigious tusks, a wave of stench crashed into them, nearly forcing them to bow their heads as they would against a strong wind. It was an odd mixture of sweat, cigar smoke, bad breath drenched in alcohol, and... armpit. Pumbaa instantly cringed and placed a hoof over his snout, trying to breathe through his mouth. Squinting through teary eyes, he glanced up at Timon, who took a deep whiff of it and seemed duly unaffected.  
  
"Ahhh... can ya smell that, Pumbaa?"  
  
"What is it, Timon?!"  
  
"That my friend is the sweet smell of progress! We're going to get a breakthrough here, Pumbaa, I can feel it!"  
  
Shaking like a leaf in the wind, Pumbaa reluctantly plowed on through the wall of stink, and to the nearest huddled group of shady men bunched over a table playing cards. They all looked very unfriendly, dressed in dirty, unkempt clothing and all with very surly looks on their faces. They completely ignored the Timon and Pumbaa as they approached. Timon puffed out his chest and greeted the men in an upbeat manner, throwing up his paws and speaking very loudly and cheerfully, like he was trying to make a sale.  
  
"Greetings and salutations, my maleficent benefactors! I require your dissident personalities in a small dilemma of mine. I was pondering whether there was a way to discover the cause of the recent disappearance of the locusts in this area. Do any of you lowbrow, foul-mouthed, rag-tag, lice ridden ne'er-do-wells know of the location of one who might assist us in this matter, or otherwise personify the aforementioned informant?"  
  
He ended his speech with a huge, overly benevolent grin on his face, leaning forward on Pumbaa's head. As one, all the men at the table turned and glared at the two small animals. Pumbaa gulped.  
  
5 minutes and one savage beating later...  
  
"AHHHHHHHHHH!!!"  
  
"YAAAAAAHHHH!!!"  
  
Whomp!  
  
Timon and Pumbaa jettisoned out the door of the pub and landed face-first in the dirt side by side, creating small furrows as they skidded a few inches. They groaned in pain from the bruises covering their hapless bodies. The lower half of Timon's tail stood at an angle it obviously was not supposed to bend to, and one of Pumbaa's tusks looked oddly bent out of shape. The warthog forced out a few words to Timon.  
  
"Uggh... Timon? I think I've had a breakthrough..."  
  
"Really?" wheezed Timon. "Where?"  
  
"In my femur..."  
  
Some time later...  
  
"All right Pumbaa. Obviously this nice guy gig just doesn't cut it. We're going back in... but this time we're going back in... in style!" Timon announced with a triumphant smile, his eyes narrowed mischievously. After some consideration in traction, they had returned to the dusty street in front of the pub, which was still marred by the imprints of Timon and Pumbaa's unfortunate collision with the ground. This time, though, Timon had made sure that they were prepared. They were dressed in long black trench coats tailored to fit their unorthodox sizes. Timon had given himself a pair of tough looking black gloves and a wide-brimmed hat. Pumbaa had the same hat, but of course lacked the gloves. Timon perched himself once more on Pumbaa's head and ordered him to go back inside. "This time we'll show 'em!" he had declared. Pumbaa still remembered their first experience, and was reluctant.  
  
"But Timon," he objected, "what if they want to beat us up again?" Timon laughed derisively. "The thought definitely crossed my mind, Pumbaa. That's why I have this!" he said, holding up a small, blue, perfectly square booklet. The words "Professional Insulters Inc." were written on the cover in big white letters. "I took a look through this baby while we were indisposed at the hospital. From the knowledge I have gleaned, no one will want to mess with us in there! You just let me do the talking, and we'll be the personification of bad boys to the bone!"  
  
Soon, they were inside, again. They wisely stayed away from everyone, allowing the conflict to come to them. Pumbaa glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, his eyes wide and worried. Timon had narrowed his eyes to mean looking slits, sending glares at anyone that got too close. He wasn't going to be foiled this time! The bartender came up, cleaning a glass while he spoke.  
  
"You boys want some drinks?" he said in a gritty, gravelly voice. Pumbaa was sweating with nervousness, and held up his hoof slowly like he was asking a question in school.  
  
"Uhh... I'll just have some water-" Timon suddenly leapt up onto his stool and slammed his fist on the bar counter in a "tough" fashion. "Two Bloody Maries, on the rocks!" Pumbaa leaned away from Timon's outburst, settling only when no one came up to smack them around. Timon remained gruff, whispering through the side of his mouth to his friend.  
  
"Calm down, Pumbaa! We just need to stay here until we find some shady character to help us along a bit!" Pumbaa leaned closer and covered their conversation with a hoof as the bartender dropped their drinks off in front of them.  
  
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Timon? I mean, I don't think we're going to get much help here..."  
  
"Nonsense, Pumbaa! We just need to put up the act that we're lonely travelers just blown in and everything will become clear... Trust me, the only way to deal with guys like this is to get tough!"  
  
Suddenly, a burly bearded man walked up and pointed at Timon's stool.  
  
"Hey, little guy, would you mind if you-" Without really thinking, Timon whirled on the newcomer and shook a small fist in his face.  
  
"Hey man, we're trying to drink here! Buzz off!" The man looked genuinely surprised. He pointed below Timon's seat at a wallet Timon took no notice of.  
  
"Well I was jus' tryin' to get my-"  
  
"What, liposuction? That's a laugh! I'm surprised you could even find the money, ya bum! You look like you just blew in from a homeless guy convention! Now get lost!" He turned to Pumbaa, muttering, but loud enough for the man to hear. "Can you believe this guy? No manners at all!" Pumbaa groaned as the man's face grew more and more annoyed with each passing second, shaking his head to try and shake Timon off his little tirade, but the feisty meerkat thought Pumbaa was agreeing with him, and went on.  
  
"Hey, would you mind? Move your ugly face, it's making my drink go sour! I doubt even your mother would love a face like this! Hey, everybody! Get a load of the ugly, uh... non-mother loved idiot over here!" Now the bearded man looked positively furious. He glowered at Timon, his voice dangerously low. "Did you just insult my mother?" Timon looked to be losing some of his luster, but he plowed on nonetheless, still thinking he could bluff his way out of it.  
  
"Uh... well, I mean, yes! Of course I did! What are ya, deaf?"  
  
The man suddenly brought up one beefy hand and pinched Timon's head between two chunky fingers. He lifted the small, now helpless meerkat bodily up to his hairy face. His breath reeked of ale.  
  
"Bad idea, little man."  
  
Timon grinned disarmingly, but it was obvious he was now close to shrieking like a little girl.  
  
"Ahh, heh heh... gee, that beard of yours really defines the contours of your cheeks..."  
  
The man made no reply, instead bringing back his arm. At the end of that arm was a fist. A very large, hairy fist. Pumbaa barely had time to gulp again.  
  
Afterwards...  
  
"Ohhh, I knew that was a bad idea Timon, I just knew it!" said Pumbaa, emphasizing the last two words with vigorous tosses of his head. Timon glared up at him from his bed, barely recognizable under the numerous bandages wrapped around his small frame.  
  
"Just shut... up," he muttered, barely audible for the gauze covering his mouth.  
  
/=/  
  
"All right Pumbaa! This is the last straw! We are going to get what we need, and we aren't leaving that stupid mook house until we have it!" exclaimed Timon that evening after his second round in the hospital, looking very determined and exasperated all at once, slamming a fist into his paw for emphasis. Pumbaa was now very, very unsure about taking one hoof back into that bar.  
  
"Are we gonna go back inside there Timon?"  
  
"Of course not! We're gonna get our dirt the old fashioned way... a stakeout! I got all we need right here!" Timon whipped out his trusty blue suitcase and reached deep inside of it, pulling out several binoculars, small bottles of camouflage paint, and two pairs of deep black sneaking suits somehow tailored to match their exact sizes. He dropped Pumbaa's bundle of equipment on the warthog's spacious snout.  
  
"Here, put these on!"  
  
After a great deal of fumbling around and complaining about how itchy the new garb was, the duo was soon set for a full night of intelligence gathering. Stationing themselves on the roof of a nearby building, they pulled out their scopes and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.  
  
....And waited...  
  
Some time later, Pumbaa was fast asleep, but Timon was still pressing his eyes into the viewing specs of his binoculars. He was so intent on not missing anything his eyes were larger than the circumference of his binoculars, and bloodshot to boot. But still he was not dissuaded.  
  
Finally, it seemed, his persistence paid off. He saw someone approaching the bar. Without turning away from the view, he nudged Pumbaa in the ribs to wake him up.  
  
"Pssst! Pumbaa! Pumbaa, wake up! I see something!"  
  
"Blurgh... huh... what? Wasn't me... oh, hi Timon!"  
  
"Shhh! Quiet! Look down there, at the front door of the pub!"  
  
"Ohhh... who is that guy?"  
  
"I don't know, but it looks like he's holding a... pitchfork?"  
  
The mysterious figure approached the door of the bar and knocked on it quietly. Another man answered the summons. Pumbaa gasped.  
  
"Timon, that's gotta be the bartender!"  
  
"Right... but what's he doing with that other guy?"  
  
As they watched, the first man gave a small, lumpy package to the bartender in exchange for some other small, square looking load. Timon and Pumbaa watched on intently. After one or two phrases tossed between the two men, the first, shady figure departed and hurried down the street. Timon snagged Pumbaa's binoculars and tossed both pairs into the bag.  
  
"That does it. We're going after that guy!"  
  
Trailing the figure was hard work. Timon couldn't keep up, so he had to hop on Pumbaa's head. After what seemed like hours, they finally caught up enough to where Timon was able to hop off Pumbaa's head and challenge the stranger.  
  
"Hey! You! Yeah, you with the rake! Stop!"  
  
The figure of course, did not stop, and dodged into a nearby alley. Pumbaa snorted in resolution, Timon groaned because he had to run some more, and both of them gasped when they saw a large car barreling down at them when they breached the mouth of the alley.  
  
There was an odd squelching noise, and the car continued on. Timon spoke into the dirt road his face had been plastered to.  
  
"Pumbaa?" "Yes?" answered the hog, staring up at the sky with big, pancake eyes, the rest of him flattened into the ground.  
  
"That really, really hurt." "I think I agree, Timon..." "But that won't stop us!" said Timon, jumping to his feet with a pop as he freed himself of the dirt, leaving a three-inch deep impression of himself. "We're going after that guy! Nobody runs Timon and Pumbaa over with a car and gets away with it! Come on, Pumbaa! We're off!" He suddenly bent over forwards and put a paw on his back, limping away with Pumbaa in tow.  
  
"Oy... to the chiropractor... 


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, this is stupid."  
  
Timon's unsavory statement echoed in the hot, dry landscape. For the past few hours they had been following the tracks of the car that had so unnecessarily run them down like so much road kill, with next to no results. Pumbaa was exhausted, Timon was angry, and all the bugs they had brought along had all died petulantly and dried up into tasteless husks. This whole ordeal was looking less glorious and more like a big fat waste of time. Timon wished that idiot old man was in front of him so he could beat him with that rubber chicken in his suitcase.  
  
Pumbaa finally plopped down on the ground, sighing in a great whoosh of air that blew up a dust cloud in front of them.  
  
"Uhnn... I'm pooped, Timon... can we just sit here and rest awhile?"  
  
Timon jumped to the ground and narrowed his eyes at Pumbaa, stomping an obstinate footpaw on the ground.  
  
"What?! You get run over by some guy in a Chevy and you want to stop?"  
  
Pumbaa only dropped down further onto his stomach and looked wearily at Timon with drooping eyelids. Timon groaned in frustration, then sat down on his behind, supporting himself by spreading his arms out behind him.  
  
"Hmmph.... Well, okay..."  
  
Fortunately, it was still early morning (they had gone all night after getting another fix-up), and the ground was still cool. Timon determined to keep up a constant vigil for last night's assailant, promising himself he would go insane with boredom before he let that guy slip past his gaze.  
  
But the soft, cool dirt felt good under his paws, and the air was so peaceful... it began to grow on the meerkat, and soon he simply slumped against Pumbaa's slowly heaving chest, using it as a pillow while he dozed off, folding his paws over his stomach.  
  
Timon woke up feeling like his bottom was on fire. He hopped up and yelped loudly enough to wake up Pumbaa, who stirred and opened an eye to watch the meerkat hop around rapidly smacking his behind over and over again.  
  
"Um... what are you doing Timon? You know that didn't win us anything at that dance contest last year..."  
  
"I'm not –ow!- doing any dance –yee-how!- Pumbaa! This dumb sand got hot from the sun..." Timon turned and noted the position of the sun, his eyes widening as he stared at it. Wherever it was (Timon needed a watch), it was way later than he had wanted it to be.  
  
"Agh! Pumbaa! How long have we been asleep!?" he yelled, still looking, and now pointing at the sun. Pumbaa rolled over onto his back.  
  
"Oh, I'd guess around six or seven hours... we never were light sleepers."  
  
"But... but the sun! It's so high, and... and late and... and.... Wait a minute..."  
  
Pumbaa was just about to remark how bad looking so long at the sun was, when Timon yelled aloud and began running in circles, this time rubbing furiously at his eyes.  
  
"Aaaaaahhh! Pumbaa! Pumbaa! Water! Get water! Iodine! I'm blind! Bliiiiinnnnddd!!!"  
  
/=/  
  
Once Timon had calmed down enough, and convinced that he was certainly not blind, they at once set off into the desert following the tire tracks. After another couple hours of mundane wandering, which would make anyone's head explode with boredom if it was described to them, Timon suddenly sat up from where he had been lying on Pumbaa's head and pointed a large, black silhouette on the horizon.  
  
"Would you look at that, Pumbaa!" Pumbaa stared in the direction Timon was jabbing at. Squinting, he too soon saw the shape.  
  
"It... looks like a rock."  
  
"Yes, Pumbaa, that is, indeed, a rock! And look! The tire tracks go right to it! Go for it, buddy!"  
  
"Yay!" yelled Pumbaa exuberantly, and they were off like a shot once more. Granted, it took two hours to reach the rock, but they were still full of inspired energy when they reached it. However, disappointment reigned once more when they began to search the mall-sized butte for clues. There didn't seem to be anything on the rock, above the rock, around the rock, or in the rock. Timon let loose his signature groan of frustration as they circled the monolithic structure for the third time.  
  
"Grraaggh! What is this? The stupid tracks just run right into the dumb thing! What mook would seriously consider driving a car into a rock?!"  
  
"Well, Timon," began Pumbaa, taking on an oddly insightful air, "since you consistently seem to term all the really dumb people we meet as mooks, then I think it's pretty obvious that the person who drove their car into this rock is a mook himself, therefore we can't really ask what kind of mook it was, as mook is a derogatory term for stupid people, as I've mentioned. Therefore, the only kind of person that drove their car into the rock is, as you say, a mook."  
  
About halfway through Pumbaa's speech, Timon had sighed and leaned forward on his friend's head, leaning forward on his elbow with his head in his paw. When the warthog was finished, Timon glanced blankly down at him.  
  
"Rhetoric is lost on you, isn't buddy?"  
  
"What's that, Timon?"  
  
"Oy... never mind. Let's just camp out here tonight and figure out what to do for tomorrow..."  
  
The night would prove to be more eventful than either of them anticipated.  
  
A/N: Well, there's a dumb cliffhanger if I ever saw one. Either way this chapter isn't very inspired, I'll admit. Well, it always gets worse before it gets better! 


End file.
